Hush
by Beautifully Ugly
Summary: LJ: "Somehow, it went from being an aching nothing to an overwhelming amount of this, and she realises that when it comes to him, nothing can ever be a healthy medium, especially not the way she feels." Read and review?


**Disclaimer:** Not named after _Hush Hush_ by the Pussycat Dolls; in fact, I had this name long before they even released the song. Everything else, though? Property of JKR.

**AN:** Um. Well. This is different. I get what I'm trying to say, but let me know if you don't. I haven't been this intense in my writing in a while.

This didn't turn out the way I needed it to, you know. But I'm not sure how I needed it to be, to be frank. And it's two days later than promised because my muse literally ripped me away from this with words for another piece. I can't control her, so I had to write them down. Sorry about that.

But anyway, read and review, yeah? Cheers, guys.

* * *

**Hush**

She doesn't know how it happened.

She remembers when they did nothing _but_ talk – well, argue would be the technically correct term. They did nothing but disagree and quarrel over everything, and he spewed words just to vex her and she spat words right back at him, and she felt –

She _felt_.

She felt exasperated – because how dare he? And she felt disgusted, because he _always_ dared to. And in some ways, it was the same thing time and time again. In some ways, she absolutely abhorred it. It was like having a wad of Droobles on the heel of her shoe, stick, stick, sticking every time she placed her foot on the ground. And it was _irritating_. She wanted nothing more than to flick it off, but it was permanently stuck there whether she liked it or not.

But then, in some ways...it felt normal. Comfortable. Like reading the same passage of one her favourite Austen novels, where she let the scene wash over her and take her with it where it would. Because she knew it so well, the words, the images, the feelings – all of it. She knew it so well, and she went along with it simply for familiarity's sake.

They used to be a serenade of sound, of colour and emotion and movement. They used to sicken everyone with their disputes, but now no one hears a word from them. And when they do speak, it's always in a civil, monotonous tone, skittering around one another.

"Hey, could you pass me that book, please?"

Like that.

His voice is husky from lack of use and soft like firelight, but contains no inflection of anything.

Her gaze flutters to his indifferent one as she hands him the tattered book. Its corners are frayed, and a few pages missing as he opens it, because it goes from page forty-nine to fifty-six. The words are indistinguishably faded, and she frowns as he squints, struggling to read despite his glasses.

"What happened to it?" she asks.

"I don't actually know," he replies. "It was in the bottom of my trunk when I found it."

"You really need a new one." She eyes it curiously.

"We're halfway through the year. No point." He shrugs, apathetic.

"Well, if you do, then you can actually read it."

He shrugs again. "Like I said, no point. It'd be a waste of money. I'll survive."

Small talk. There's no purpose for it, but people – _they_ – insist on using it regardless, in case it becomes too quiet, and the tension too suffocating.

But eventually, small talk won't suffice. Like now, as they wither into silence again, aside from the crackle of the book's pages as he turns them, and the occasional sound of scribbling as she writes. She hates it. Because she doesn't know what they are, or where they stand, or how to be around him anymore. They're not quite friends, or even acquaintances, yet they're not quite enemies either. Their relationship status is yet to be defined, and neither of them quite know how to.

Although sometimes, she doesn't mind. It's a lovely feeling, the serenity that washes over her after a Heads' meeting gone well. She can relax with Marly, bathe in the knowledge that their rows are no more, and that he leaves her alone now rather than pestering and nagging as he used to. There are no more sentences that travel the route of, "I _hate_ Potter", no more aggravation to vent, and in that aspect, she really doesn't mind.

But then sometimes, she does mind. Because sometimes, it's not simply a wash of serenity, rather a flood of it, overwhelming her into further silence as she searches, desperate, for something that seems to have long dissipated with time.

* * *

He approaches her a few weeks later in the corridors, fades the smile from her face as she sees him. Her friends, ever the tactful people they are, nudge her and hurry along, leaving them alone in a gaping corridor whose walls seem to close in on them as he takes a few more steps towards her.

For a moment, the silence flourishes in the unease growing between them, feeds on their tension, but then he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair, and it weakens as their eyes meet, as he smiles at her, albeit uncomfortably. She doesn't return it, not knowing how to.

"Hi, Evans," he finally says. And she's thankful, because she's certain she didn't have anything to say before he spoke.

"Hi," she tucks a curl behind her ear.

"Erm...I hate to be a pain," he begins, scratching his nose, "but McGonagall's been on my back about Heads' meetings."

"Oh," she says eloquently. A few painful seconds pass before she concludes she should say something else. "She hasn't mentioned anything to me."

"She's probably going to chase you down next," he cracks a small grin. "So I thought I'd just save her the trouble." His joke alleviates some of the awkwardness, and she finds it easier to smile this time. "So, um, when do you think we should have the meeting?"

"Erm," she frowns slightly, thinking, "how about tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow's okay," he agrees. "How about at seven-ish, after dinner?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Good."

She's unsure, but somewhere between the lines of their exchange, something's shifted and blurred, and his sudden friendliness towards her makes it difficult to see why she shouldn't treat him with the same. And as they stand here, she comes to realise that whatever they are won't be defined until she, too, steps forward, as he has.

It's something in the way he treated her just then, the tentativeness in the way he approached her, that makes her think she should at least try.

"So, see you tomorrow, yeah?" he asks, pocketing his hands in his trousers as he smiles slightly in a goodbye.

"Tomorrow," she nods. "By the way," she pauses, lets the words hang, and he meets her eyes. It's...different, and she can't decipher what's there, but it shouldn't stop her from doing this, so she doesn't let it. "You can call me Lily." She couldn't help the way her tone became coy, but he seems not to notice.

"Lily," he tries, tests it on his tongue. She notices how comfortable it sounds, the syllables of her name drifting in his voice. She thinks she likes this. "You'll have to call me James, then."

"James." It flows from her lips, light and easy, a stark difference to when she'd gritted "Potter" through her teeth, and she realises just how much his name suits him.

"That's better," he observes, watching her with warm caramel eyes and a careful comfort she could get used to that lets her know this is okay.

"Yeah, it is," she can't help but agree. This time, the silence that passes between them is almost relaxing.

He grins, murmurs a "see you", and she finds that the upturn of her lips is now far easier than she could have imagined.

* * *

"Sirius thinks we should patrol near the common room," he remarks casually. He sits across from her on the floor, cross-legged amidst a few scrolls of parchment, attempting his very best, she can tell, to seem as though he's doing some work. She's lying on her stomach, knees bent, ankles crossed in the air, and doesn't even pause in her writing as she snorts good-naturedly and replies.

"He wants _you_ to patrol near the common room so you'll help him with all your 'Marauding'," she corrects, and he smirks. "I bet he didn't even say that – I bet you just made that up because you want to," she raises an eyebrow at him.

"No, he did, actually," he scowls, playful. "But you insist on blaming everything on me all the time, so I'm not surprised, really."

"Oh, as if," she scoffs, though a grin tugs at her lips.

"You do," he counters. "'I can't find Marlene – oh it's your fault, James!'" He attempts a mimic at her voice, speaking in falsetto, and she bursts into laughter. 'It's raining outside – it's your fault, James!' 'Slughorn's late to the lesson – it's your fault Ja –' no, wait, that probably would be my fault..." he trails away, chuckling.

"You're so immature," she manages to say, before sounds of mirth bubble through her lips at his ludicrousness, and her elbows collapse as her head falls onto her arms with her giggles.

It's been like this for a while now, talking and joking and colour. _Hello_'s exchanged in corridors, walking together to classes – and lately, he sometimes sits beside her at breakfast. Since the day he confronted her about the Heads' meetings, it's been so simple, these types of exchanges. That day, they entered the cautious realms of acquaintanceship, and today, they reside comfortably within the boundless ones of friendship. She wonders if it would have always been this easy, befriending him, and whether she should have done so previously.

She watches as he runs his fingers through his hair, glances at the time, and catches her eye. Something within her tangles at the soft, smiling expression on his face.

"What?" he grins. She shakes her head, propping her head on her hand and averting his gaze through the content expression she knows rests on her face.

She's aware he's still looking at her as she musses her own hair, curls tumbling over one another before cascading down her back. She feels oddly self-conscious with his eyes on her, scorching and velvet – but she feels oddly at ease too. Yet she's never met this strange clash before, this peculiar balance of emotion, so she doesn't deal with it.

She doesn't know whether he's aware of it, but he's been more playful with her lately, brushing her side and her hand and her heart. Not that she minds. She doesn't mind at all, in fact, especially not when he smiles at her like he does – a smile she's grown rather fond of lately, as it's sent her way more and more.

A yawn tugs at her mouth as she's in thought, and she covers her lips, lets her head fall onto the parchment with a soft thud as the threat of slumber paralyses her momentarily.

"Tired?" he teases with a chuckle as she props herself up once more. When her sleep-hooded eyes meet his, she finds him smiling at her warmly. But the smile fades, and though he looks good without it, she finds herself wanting to curl his lips upwards. He shifts, jaw tensing, and his eyes seem darker as he watches her; she wonders what incurred the change.

"Very," she finally murmurs in response, deciding to get off the floor and settle beside the sofa. At her response, he seems to remember himself.

"Lily," he laughs as she pulls the parchments towards her. "No, look..." Taking them from her, he looks at her pointedly. "Why don't you go up to bed?"

"But –" she attempts, but he wants none of it.

"No, go to bed, okay? I'll take care of this, I promise." She hesitates. "Well?" Wanting to stay, she casts her gaze downwards to avoid answering. It's then that she catches something peeking out from beneath a sheet of parchment. Curious, she pulls it out, and finds that it's a new, shining copy of the ragged book he'd been using a while ago.

"You got a new copy," she smirks, holding it up. He looks at it, then looks at her.

"I did, yeah."

"Well, at least you can read it now," she muses, flicking through it offhandedly. "Waste of money?"

"No, because I can read it now," he says with a smile and a roll of his eyes at her attempt to change the subject. "Come on. You're tired – and god, are you stubborn – but you're still tired. Go on, just go up to bed, yeah?" He sighs when she doesn't answer, shifting himself to his feet. And then he's in front of her, tall and graceful and supportive, and she grasps the hand he offers, fingers sliding through the groove of his hand. It's soft despite all the Quidditch she knows he plays, and as she allows him to pull her up, she finds that marvelling.

They've never purposely touched before.

The realisation coils her mind, and suddenly, she's not so sleepy anymore as they enter unchartered territory together, hand in hand. She gazes up at him through her lashes, taking in the part of his lips and the softness in his eyes, with something else lingering on the edge of his expression.

He's good-looking – who didn't know that? – but she's never before realised _how_ good-looking he is. Despite his square jawline and the stubble lining it, and the knowing in his eyes that deceives people into thinking he's older, when she studies him, she can distinctly see that he's on the brink of adulthood. It suits him.

She wonders what happened to the careless boy she once knew. The one who chortled at nothing and flirted with everyone, who made her think he was a conceited idiot, when, really, now that she thinks about it, he was probably pretending. It's hard to believe this is the man that boy is now.

It's the sound of his voice that jolts her from her thoughts this time.

"Are you okay?" he wants to know. She nods, mute. He contemplates her answer for a moment, regarding her carefully. "Alright," he sighs, and grins, "Go to bed now." He pushes her towards the stairs playfully, gently, and with a brief squeeze to the hand, he lets go of her. The air, so much colder than his skin, rushes to sting where he warmed. "G'night," he calls with her ascent of the stairs.

"'Night," she murmurs, sends him a small smile before entering her room and shutting the door. Pressing her back to the wood, she slides down its length slowly, clutches at her chest in an attempt to stop her now rocketing heartbeat. And then, when it doesn't soothe, she realises it's the very hand he held a few minutes previously.

* * *

The next few weeks pass in a haze of many things. Surreptitious looks, coy smiles, not-so-accidental touches – but surprisingly, no outrageous flirting.

She feels everything now, too much of it. Her heartbeat doubles, triples, quadruples, even, when she hears his voice addressing her, and she feels its unsteady drum on her chest; she feels a sensation in her stomach, one she's now used to, weaving together and ripping apart at the plethora of expressions on his face, and she feels –

She _feels_.

Everything is too much, but she still feels. Somehow, it went from being an aching nothing to an overwhelming amount of _this_, and she realises that when it comes to him, nothing can ever be a healthy medium, especially not the way she feels. Ironically, if it were, it would not be healthy at all.

Because of course, it was _them_. It was him and her. And whatever it was that she felt for him before, it's only strengthened with time. Through the winter, it was there, intense and yearning, burning through the freezing nights and frosty days. It's here as spring arrives in a fray of colour, of sunshine and green grass and longer days with him.

And it's still here as she watches the sun's graceful descent into the horizon from beneath the beech tree, lets the cool spring breeze rake through her hair and drift all worries away from her mind.

Grass rustles in a rhythm – someone's footsteps. Though she should be wary, there's something in the gentle footfall that lets her know not to overreact.

"Hi," a voice says, and its sincerity coats her with a warmth the sunshine today couldn't manage.

"Hey," she greets him. He settles close beside her, leaving a universe of space between them. "What're you doing here?" She returns her eyes to the horizon just as the sun dips beneath it, and night begins falling upon them.

"I have to talk to you," he says softly, haunted. She tenses, tilts her head to look at him.

"What's wrong?" His eyes are dark beneath the shadow of the beech tree, and the way he's looking at her makes her throat tighten, makes that sensation flit around her stomach.

The rush overwhelming her veins tells her not to dismiss this, not to cower from the intensity emanating from him. She doesn't know how she will, when his eyes arrest her this way.

"Lily," he whispers, his voice curling around her name, the crucial note missing in a symphony. "What are we?"

"I just – I don't know what to do," he confesses, shoulders hunching. She doesn't know what to say. "I can't fight it anymore, but you...you insist on ignoring it." Her breath catches, and she opens her mouth to speak, but nothing escapes. "I can't do it, I can't just ignore the possibility of us," he breathes, dark eyes jaded. "I waited six years, and now there might be a chance, and – and..." he tenses, and looks pained as he chokes the words out: "There – there _is_ a chance, isn't there?"

And there it is, her opportunity to be open with him. Her throat is clogged with emotion – or are they words? – so she nods, silent, and doesn't think anyone could make her more vulnerable.

"Lily," he says again, reverent and relieved. His hand reaches for hers, wraps around her own, and it's tentative, but it's there. "You laugh with me like I'm your friend, and you flirt with me like I'm more, and you look at me like I mean something to you, but –" He sighs, runs his fingers through his wind-swept hair, and averts her eyes for a moment. "Do I mean anything to you, Lily?"

"James," she can't help but say, heart clenching. She wasn't expecting this eruption of words from him.

"Do I?" he wants to know, voice hoarse. The crickets begin singing, and the moon, a perfect crescent, shines that little bit more. It gives her the ounce of courage she needs, and her words finally make themselves known.

"You mean so much to me," she tells him softly, although amidst all his emotion-crammed syllables, it doesn't seem enough. But it's her turn now. Cautious, she unwraps her hand from his, sliding her fingers into the gaps between his, and tightens her hold. "I'm sorry if I sent you mixed signals," she whispers.

"I never meant to. It's just, you were so...distant at the start of the year, and I didn't like it. But then we became friends, and it was – I felt – you were so –" she breaks off, new to this and unable to deal with opening up.

She feels like crying. She's been so naïve, and he's been so patient, and she still doesn't know how to deal with this. His lips press against her temple, breath warm on her cold skin, and he murmurs that it was the same for him, too.

"I'm sorry," she repeats weakly, attempting to keep the waver from reaching her voice as her eyes flutter at his touch. "It's no excuse, but I'm not used to feeling like this, and – I do mean it," she says quietly.

"Mean what?" he coaxes, eyes burning into hers.

"You mean so much to me," she squeezes his fingers. It's still not enough. It won't ever be enough. But it's something. His gaze softens, his hand brushing a lock of crimson away from her face.

"You do, too," he whispers.

His words wash over her, envelop her, caress her, and right then, it's obvious. It's so obvious. They've danced around it for months, and she's danced around it for years, but right then, the desire in his eyes courses through his words and she can avoid it no longer.

She doesn't want to.

The backs of his fingers trace her cheek, longing, lingering, and her stomach coils at the intense expression on his face. "I really want to kiss you..."

She doesn't know what it is – perhaps it's the honest tranquillity of the moment, or the st-st-stutter of her heartbeat, or him and the way he is – but she thinks it's about time she allows the moment to take her with it where it will. For both their sakes. So here, beneath the crescent moon, in the hush of twilight, she lets herself go.

"Then kiss me," she murmurs. His eyes darken in response. A hand ghosts over her face, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. Slowly, ever so slowly, he leans in. And then his lips touch where his finger had been and the electricity between them jolts, hums, flows between the fusion of their mouths, charging straight to her very soul with a zing that sends a shiver tingling up her spine.

She feels him shift closer, his legs nudging hers, fingers floating across her cheek – and she melts. Somehow, the fact that they're in plain view of anyone dances straight out of her mind tauntingly, arm in arm with her control. She can't find the will to care, not when he's kissing her like this. Not when his hair feels so lovely beneath her fingertips, not when his arm pulls her closer still, anchoring her to him.

She whispers his name, air between kisses, and it feels so good, too good, and she can't seem to find the will to stop. And from the way he's kissing her, it seems neither can he. The sensation of his stubble scratching her skin, his tongue nudging her lips apart, strokes hers before she allows them to tangle, the way he kisses so slowly and exhales a quiet groan into her mouth – it's mind-numbing, makes her shiver and cling to him in a way she never thought she would.

She feels how gentle he's being, how soft his caresses are on her skin, the throb of his pulse, and wonders if it will always feel like this.

All too soon, his lips slow, become languid, soft, and she parts them from hers. His breath burns on her cheek as her fingers slowly unfurl in his hair, slip down to the back of his neck, and he touches his forehead to hers, touches his lips to hers once, twice, three times more. The mood has lightened despite the sun's departure, and she's sure she's right in thinking it's the high of their kisses.

After a moment, her eyes flutter open, and her breath catches. His gaze smoulders against hers and his eyes rake over her features, searching for something in her face. A whisper of a smile graces his lips as he seemingly finds it, and he pulls her closer.

They stay this way for a while, at peace with one another, at peace as the nature around them hums and sings in soft, whispered breaths across their skin in tranquil harmony. The rise-and-fall of their chests become one, and their entwined fingers rest on her lap and this is so effortless to them, to sit here and just be with one another despite everything.

"Why can't things be as easy as that?" he asks with a wistful chuckle. She casts her gaze down, to their interlaced hands lying half on his old jeans, half on her new ones.

"Would it be us if it was?" she responds. From the radiant upturn of his lips, the tingling of the kiss he lays on her head, she thinks they're a few of the truest words she's spoken.

They fall silent once more, unknowing of what to say – or rather, where to begin. There's too much to say, and perhaps not enough patience to say it with. Too much to say, and not enough time to listen. What if they push too far? What if she doesn't know how to do this? What if _he_ doesn't know how to do this? What if –

"Not tonight," he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss her neck, her jaw, then her lips. "Don't think about it tonight," he breathes into her mouth. She smiles into the kiss, unable to help it. "Be happy tonight. We deserve that much."

"Okay," she whispers.

Perhaps they won't deal with it tonight, but when they do, it will be hard – they both know it. There'll be tears and yells and a thousand frays of words, but it'll be worth it.

_They_ will be worth it.


End file.
